Quiet Desperation
by Bits And Pieces
Summary: Postwar, 1961.  Hogan receives a phone call from LeBeau, and it's bad news.  WARNING: homosexuality, character death


A/N: Sorry I've been a bit scarce around here lately; R/L has been keeping me extra busy. Anyway, this is my first attempt at writing in first person. I know, this is really sad.

* * *

_The time is gone  
__The song is over  
__Thought I'd something more to say  
_-Time, by Pink Floyd

I had just gotten home from work, when the phone rang. I picked it up; surprised to find out it was Louis LeBeau on the other line. It'd been sixteen years since we'd all walked out of Stalag 13, sixteen years since the end of the war, and ten years since I'd talked to LeBeau.

At first we'd kept in touch – LeBeau, Kinch, Carter and I – but we all got sucked into our own little corners of the world that had become our lives, and the letters and phone calls eventually faded. I hadn't heard from Carter in six years, not from Kinch in eight. And Newkirk…Newkirk I only spoke with once; just after we were liberated.

I was still holding the phone to my ear when I heard LeBeau ask for me again, and realized I hadn't said anything yet. "LeBeau!" I exclaimed, genuinely happy to hear his voice, "Is that really you?"

"Oui, Colonel Hogan, it's me, Louis!"

I grinned when I heard him use my old title. "You know I'm retired, Louis – you can call me Rob." He hesitated, and I chuckled softly. I could picture the indecision on his face.

"All right, Rob," he said to me, and I could have sworn he sounded almost embarrassed.

"How are you? How's the family?" I asked him.

"We're all fine. The restaurant is doing very well, and Marie is busy with the boys."

"Boys?"

"Our sons, Jacques and Philippe. Jacques is eight and Philippe is five."

I heard Louis sigh tiredly, and smiled. "Sounds like you have your hands full," I sympathized.

"Tell me about it!" he exclaimed, and I chuckled. Then he asked, "How are you and your family, Rob?"

"We're fine, too," I replied. "Carol spends a lot of time running the house and taking care of our son, and I'm busy with work."

"I thought you retired?"

"From the service. But I opened up my own private flight school a few years back, and now I'm a flying instructor."

"Ah, Oui, I should have known."

I waited a bit, and when Louis didn't say anything more, I knew there was another reason he'd called. "So, what's up?" I asked, encouraging him to get to the point.

"It's Pierre," I heard Louis say in a much more subdued voice, "He's ill."

I gripped the phone a little tighter and asked, "How ill?" Again Louis paused, and I forced myself to wait. Then Louis started talking in a rush, like he wanted to let it all out at once, and I listened to each word, my heart sinking as he talked.

"He is very ill, mon ami. I went to the hospital in London to visit him; he looked terrible. It's his liver. The doctor said he has a week left…maybe two."

It was my turn to say nothing; just stand there and hold the phone to my ear in shock. Finally I opened my mouth, but all I could do was echo something Louis just said. "It's his liver?"

"Oui, Rob. It's failing. That's what happens when you drink too much for too long."

"I know, Louis," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "I…I didn't know he had a drinking problem."

"How could you? You haven't spoken to him since we left the camp!"

Louis' words cut through me like a knife. He had every reason to be angry with me about that. But I couldn't tell him why Newkirk and I hadn't spoken; not now, not ever. Still, I had to say something. "You're right, I'm sorry."

"He asked about you."

I nearly gasped out loud. "He did?"

"Oui. That is why I called; I thought you should know."

I stood there for what seemed an eternity, but was only a few seconds. At last I replied, "Thanks, Louis, for telling me."

"You're welcome, Rob."

I heard his voice shake a little at that. "Louis… Take care of yourself," I said, hoping my voice wasn't shaking, too.

"You, too, Rob."

I hung up the phone, and put my hand against the wall to steady myself. Oh, I knew, deep down, this day would come; one of our little group from the past would leave us, permanently. I just hadn't expected it to be so soon, or that it would be Newkirk.

Newkirk. Peter.

I heard the side door open, and Carol walked in, carrying a bag of groceries under each arm. I quickly straightened up and watched her set them down on the kitchen counter. She looked over at me and said, "Hi, honey, how was your day?" Without waiting for my reply, she kept talking. "They were having a sale on pork chops, I hope that sounds all right for dinner. I was going to get a roast, but they didn't look very good. Oh, Margery called; she and Jack will be a little late Saturday, so she asked me to…"

Her voice trailed off, and I noticed she was staring at me strangely. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked.

I stared back at her and said in the most calm, determined voice I could muster; "I have to go to London."

* * *

The plane ride over the Atlantic was actually rather pleasant. I hadn't been overseas in a long time, and I found myself staring out the window at the crisp blue water underneath us as we sped to England. I couldn't help wishing I was flying the plane; I even joked to the Captain to let me take a turn, but he just smiled at me and shook his head politely.

When I wasn't staring out the window, I was either leafing through the magazines that the stewardess periodically handed out, or trying to sleep. Anything to keep from thinking too much; about the last time I'd seen Peter, about the condition he's in now, about how he was going to react when he saw me. A few times I even toyed with the idea of boarding the next plane back to the states the moment this one landed. But no, I had to see him. It was my last chance.

The plane landed, and I retrieved my bags and took a cab to the hotel. I loitered in my hotel room for a little while, letting my nerves get the best of me. At last I squared my shoulders, telling myself I was being ridiculous, and headed down to the lobby. I hailed another cab and had him take me to the hospital.

When I got there, I asked for Newkirk's room. The admissions clerk told me where it was, and I followed her directions; up to the second floor, down the hall, turn right at the nurses' station, then down that hall to the last door on the left.

I reached the room and hesitated in the doorway. Then I inhaled deeply and entered. There, stretched out on the bed, was a man who resembled Newkirk, but he was much older looking than he should have been; thin and frail, cheeks sunken in, his color a sickly yellow. He still had his hair, and as he turned his head to look at me, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was him when I saw those big green eyes I remembered so clearly widen in astonishment.

"Rob! Is it really you?"

He sounded so surprised, that I almost broke down right there. But I quickly pulled myself together and forced a smile on my face. "Yes, Peter, it's me, Rob," I said as steadily as I could.

Peter stared at me a moment longer, as if I might be a hallucination. But when he blinked and saw that I was still there, he smiled and said, "Well, don't 'ang about in front of the door…come 'ere, Rob, let's 'ave a look at you."

God, how I'd missed that Cockney accent of his! I stepped closer and, noticing a chair nearby, snagged it and set it next to the bed. I sat down and placed my hand over Peter's, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Newkirk raked his eyes over me approvingly. "You look good, Rob."

I wished with all my heart I could say the same about him. Instead, I slipped into the familiar banter we'd always used, knowing that's what he would want. "You look like hell, Peter," I told him, grinning.

"Thanks, mate," he replied with a smirk on his face. "You sure know 'ow to make a bloke feel better."

We sat there for a few moments, looking at each other with silly grins on our faces. Then Peter's grin faded, and his expression grew serious. "You didn't 'ave to come," he quietly said to me.

All humor left me. "Yes I did," I told him matter-of-factly.

He stared at me, searching my eyes. "It's all right, Rob. I don't mind all that much; dyin', I mean." He blinked at the moisture that was creeping into his eyes; then tried to smirk again, but fell short. "Matter of fact, I'm surprised I lasted this long."

"Peter," I muttered, squeezing his hand again.

"I couldn't do it," he said, gazing at me with resignation. "I tried, Rob, I really did, but…I just couldn't get over you."

My stomach cramped into a knot, and I felt tears spring up in my eyes. But I fought them back; I was determined to be strong for him. "So, what happened?" I asked; suddenly needing to know.

Peter shrugged. "Not much to tell, really. I got a job workin' for some sod, what owned a pub downtown. Met a girl, tried to settle down. After she cheated on me the fourth time, I left her; started hittin' the bottle every night after work. When it got to where me boss noticed the whiskey disappearin', I just told 'im to take it out o' me paycheck. I worked there for the next ten years or so, until I was drinkin' pretty much all the time. Guess he'd finally 'ad enough, and tossed me out. I stayed with Mavis for a fortnight, but then 'er husband threw me out, and I ended up on the streets." He paused, and I almost gasped at the depth of emotional pain in his eyes. "Beggin' may not be honorable, but it gets you what you need."

I stared at him, wanting to hold him in my arms, wanting to tell him everything was going to be okay, but instead I muttered lamely, "You should have called me…"

"What good would that 'ave done?" he replied, and I flinched at the hurt in his voice. "You couldn't 'ave 'elped me, and you know it!"

"You didn't give me the chance!" I shot back, instantly regretting the anger in my voice; anger that was directed at myself, not him. A wave of guilt washed over me, and the knot in my stomach tightened. I should have kept in touch with him, I should have found out he needed help, I should have...

I should have known.

"'Ow could I?" he snapped at me bitterly. "You made yourself bloody clear the last time we talked – I couldn't be a part o' your life…"

"I didn't mean that you couldn't write to me!" I blurted out.

"Oh? And 'ow many letters did you send to me, Rob?" he retorted sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.

More guilt washed through me; slamming into me from the inside. I'd let him down, hadn't I? Let him down in every way possible. "I'm… I'm sorry, Peter." I managed to utter, casting my gaze downward. I knew it was too little, too late, but it was all I could think of to say.

When I raised my eyes I saw that he was staring at me, his expression unreadable. "So, 'ow's your life been?" he asked, changing the subject.

I stared back for a moment; then let out a sigh. "Well, you already know I stayed in the Air Force – "

"Yes, I know," he muttered, the bitterness back in his voice.

I cleared my throat and continued. "I flew a few missions in the Pacific, until the war ended; then I came back to the states, met a girl. Ended up marrying her, and we had a son."

"Sounds like a great life, Rob. I'm 'appy for you."

He didn't sound sarcastic; just tired. I swallowed hard, my heart already broken. "Peter…" I said, squeezing his hand. I reached up with my other hand and brushed my fingers across his cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"Ah, Rob, I've missed you," he said quietly.

"I've missed you, too," I told him; my heart in my throat.

He opened his eyes and looked at me. "I remember everythin'…" he whispered, so much emotion in his voice.

"Me, too," I responded, my own voice cracking. "Like it was yesterday…"

* * *

I'd always had a thing for men; as long as I could remember. But I also knew it was frowned upon…hell, it was treated like a disease. I'd grown up to follow the norm – follow the mold – and I knew my interests had no place in the world.

But when I got shot down and ended up at Stalag Thirteen, I met someone who had the same…inclination. Oh, I didn't know at first, but after being there a while, I began to pick up clues. The way he would let me touch him; drape my arm around his shoulders, rest my hand against his neck, press my leg against his when I sat next to him at the table…he didn't seem to mind. And then I noticed him start to reciprocate; smiling at me more, moving closer to me when it wasn't necessary, leaning into my hand when it would linger on his shoulder, throwing me looks when no one was watching…that's when I became convinced Newkirk felt the same.

Then one night, we were celebrating some victory – I forget which one – and Newkirk and I found ourselves alone in the tunnels with a bottle of whiskey. We got pretty drunk, and the next thing I knew, he was staring at me with those shiny green eyes and touching my cheek. I leaned in and kissed him, and he pulled my head tight against his and kissed me back.

I took him then, right there, right in the tunnel where any one of the other guys could have caught us. But they didn't, and afterwards, I vowed to be more careful.

And careful I was; we both were. We were experts at hiding and lying, so it wasn't that difficult to keep our affair from being discovered by prying eyes. Sometimes we'd slip out of camp, sometimes we'd find an unused area in the tunnels, and sometimes we'd go on missions together, and take advantage of a hotel room or a quiet spot in the woods on the way back to camp. No one ever caught us, and our confidence – and our love – grew.

But then, the war in Europe ended, and I knew it was the end of us, too. After we were liberated, I pulled Newkirk aside, and told him that I had a career to follow, and there was no place for him. I knew I was breaking his heart – I was breaking mine, too – but I didn't see any other way. He didn't take it well and stormed off… and that was the last time I'd seen him.

* * *

I gazed at Peter a little longer; then I withdrew my hand. "I wish you had let me know…I would have found a way to help you."

He searched my eyes and replied, "Too late for that now, innit?"

I could feel my eyes tearing up again. "I don't want to lose you, Peter."

He stared at me; his expression one of resignation. "You already lost me, Rob…a long time ago." He must have seen the anguish that flashed across my eyes at his words, and he looked at me curiously and asked, "Why did you come?"

I gazed at him, and suddenly he looked sixteen years younger to me; like he had the last time I saw him. I opened my mouth and replied softly, "To tell you that I love you. I always have. "

He must have heard the emotion in my voice; must have seen my expression, because his eyes grew moist and he murmured, "I love you, too."

I rose from my chair then, and, leaning over him, I pressed my lips to his; gently, tenderly. I kissed him for a full minute; then pulled away and straightened up. I gazed into his eyes, trying to convey a lifetime's worth of emotions to him in a matter of seconds. His eyes mirrored mine, and we both smiled at the same time.

"You never did tell me about your son," he commented. "'Ow old is he? What's 'is name?"

"He's fourteen," I told him, "And his name is Peter."

He grinned wide; then started to laugh out loud. I laughed, too, and for a brief moment, we were back together again; the way it was so many years ago. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced toward the door. A nurse was standing there, looking at me.

"Visiting hours are over. I'm afraid you'll have to leave now," she stated matter-of-factly.

I nodded. "Okay, I'm going," I told her. I looked back at Peter and said, "I'll be back first thing in the morning."

"All right," he replied, grinning at me, "I'll see you then."

I turned to leave, when I heard his voice and stopped.

"I'm glad you came, Rob," he said.

I glanced back at him and, mirroring the emotion in his eyes, replied, "I am, too, Peter." I stared at him for a few moments longer; then I left and returned to my hotel.

* * *

I felt like I'd just fallen asleep, when the ringing of the phone in my room woke me up. I fumbled for it in the dark, and when I finally grabbed it and held it to my ear, I heard a voice on the other end. "Mister Hogan?"

"Yes," I replied groggily.

"I'm calling from the hospital; you asked to be notified. Your friend just passed – Peter Newkirk."

"Thank you," I said, becoming instantly awake. I hung up the phone and quickly sat up in bed. _Ah, Peter, _I thought to myself; then I got up and headed for the shower.

I set the temperature as hot as I could stand it, and as the water cascaded over me, I lost it; letting myself go, sobbing and wailing like I'd never done in my whole life, or ever would again. At last I got out and dried myself off. Then I walked back into the room and picked up the phone. I had a funeral to plan.

* * *

I spared no expense; bought Peter a lavish casket, picked out a plot in one of the nicer cemeteries, paid for the funeral service. He died on a Wednesday, so I scheduled the service for Sunday afternoon, and started making calls.

They all showed up; Kinch, Carter, LeBeau – even Baker had been able to make it. The day actually turned out to be rather warm and sunny; in direct contrast to what we'd gathered for. We didn't say much to each other before the service; everyone still in shock over Peter's death.

The minister moved to the head of the casket and recited his usual speech; then the others took his place – one at a time – each delivering a short eulogy, describing how Peter had affected their lives. I had debated whether to make a speech of my own, but in the end I decided against it; everything I'd wanted to say, I already had…to Peter.

When it was over, we instinctively drew together, and the questions that had been on everyone's minds began to surface.

"How long was he sick?" Baker asked.

"Why didn't he tell anyone?" Carter said, frowning.

"Louis, you knew what was going on; why didn't you call any of us?" Kinch flashed the Frenchman an accusatory look.

"I didn't know what was going on!" LeBeau exclaimed defensively. "Mavis called me and told me Pierre was in the hospital. When I came to see him, that's when I found out how ill he was. And that's when I called Le Colonel – I mean, Rob."

All eyes turned towards me. I cleared my throat and said, "Yes, Louis called me, and I flew out here the next day. I saw Peter briefly, but he died before I could contact the rest of you. It happened very suddenly…" I stopped; my voice catching in my throat.

Everyone was silent for a few moments. At last Kinch spoke up quietly. "Why didn't he tell any of us that he was having so much trouble? I mean, any one of us would have been more than happy to help him…"

"Because that's not his way," I blurted out. "He's never been the type to ask for help; no matter how much he needs it."

The others nodded solemly. There was another pause among them, when LeBeau asked, "Did anyone see Mavis? I thought she would have come – "

"Did she know about the funeral?" Carter cut in.

"Oui, I called her after Rob called me." He glanced in my direction. "Did she contact you?"

I shook my head. "No, I haven't heard from her." I glanced behind LeBeau and saw a woman dressed in black, approaching our little group. "Maybe this was too much for her to…" My voice trailed off as she neared, and I inwardly gasped when her features came into focus. It was Mavis; it had to be…she had Peter's eyes.

"Excuse me," the woman interrupted, "But, would you all 'appen to be the men, what set up me brother's funeral?"

"You must be Mavis," I said, smiling at her.

"Yes, sir," she replied, shyly. "I can't stay long; me 'usband doesn't know I'm 'ere." She glanced at each of us briefly. "I just wanted to thank you, for givin' me brother, Peter, such a grand funeral. I think he deserved it…" She paused for a moment to wipe her eyes. "He was never the same after the war, you know. He couldn't seem to find any 'appiness… I never did understand why. But he always spoke so highly of you all… I think you were the best friends he ever had." Her eyes filled with tears, and she quickly added, "I just thought you'd like to know." Then she turned and left, hurrying back to her car; but the sounds of her sobs didn't go unnoticed by the five of us.

After Mavis had gone, we looked at each other, and suddenly I needed to get out of there, to be alone for a while. I said my goodbyes, promising to keep in touch; then I headed back to my hotel room. My flight was leaving in a few hours, anyway, so I packed my things and hailed a cab.

I arrived at the airport early, so while I waited for my flight to begin boarding, I sat down on a chair in front of one of the enormous windows overlooking the runway. As I watched the planes taking off and landing, my thoughts drifted to Peter, and I sighed. Guilt overwhelmed me; the thought that he drank himself to death because of me was almost too much for me to bear. If I'd known, if I'd had any inkling, I would have never let him go in the first place. I would have retired from the service, stayed with him in London. We could have gotten a place of our own, gone into business together or something…

_That's not true, and you know it! _I winced at the thought and shifted in my seat. No, I was too hung up on being normal, wasn't I? Fitting in, living out in the open. I loved Peter with all my heart, but I'd been too afraid to stay with him. I wasn't ready to live my life sneaking around, hiding our relationship, fearful of anyone finding out, putting up with the abuse when they did. I didn't have the courage to face that, and I knew it.

I think Peter knew it, too.

I sighed again and stared out at the runway. At least I'd been able to see him one last time; let him know how I felt about him. At least I'd said goodbye.

I guess that would have to be enough.


End file.
